I never thought of that.
However, it doesn't matter.

It's only some old friend of Aunt Charlotte's, and he's coming to call on her soon, so it isn't worth bothering about meanwhile." He therefore dismissed the matter from his mind, and set about the far more profitable employment of fortifying himself by a morning's devotion to garden-craft, both manual and mental, against the martyrdom (as he called it) that he was to undergo that afternoon.

For Aunt Charlotte had insisted on his accompanying her to tea at the vicarage, and this was a function he detested with all his heart.

He never knew whom he might meet there, and always went in fear of Cobbledicks, MacTavishes, and others of the same sort.

The vicar himself he did not mind so much--the vicar was not a bad little thing in his way; but Mrs Sheepshanks, with her patronising disapproval and affected airs of smartness, he couldn't endure, while the Socialistic curate was his aversion.